Plan A
by Miss Jazz
Summary: Because there was no Plan B. Post Living Doll. GSR.


**Plan A**

By Miss Jazz

**Genre**: Drama/Angst, GSR.

**Spoilers:** Living Doll.

**Summary:** Because there is no Plan B. Post Living Doll.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything. I'm just writing for fun and because I can't wait until the season premiere.

**Author's Note:** I'm back! Thanks for all the encouraging e-mails and reviews; they really motivated me to keep writing. Hope you enjoy this.

_

* * *

This isn't part of the plan._

Sara shuddered violently, the involuntary movement sending sharp sparks of pain through every bone, every muscle. It was very cold now–too cold–and she was losing the battle; her tenuous grasp on semi-consciousness. Fear and sadness were now taking hold of her entire being: lingering, threatening, teasing in the damp fog that engulfed her. It was a cruel joke. It had to be.

The miniatures. Natalie. The car.

Was this really happening?

To her?

To _them?_

Sara trembled again, and through the thick haze, she heard a small, pained cry. _Her_ cry. One that she barely recognized; one that shattered her. She _was_ under the car. She was still there. Pinned. Cold. Desperate. Above her, the rain continued to fall, pounding on the car, pooling madly around it. It was only a matter of time. Even in the state she was in–she knew that.

But dying wasn't part of the plan.

Grissom. The dog. Being together. Laughter. Releasing the past. Embracing the present. Looking forward to the future. _Living._ Those were part of the plan. Lying squished under a car, with broken bones and rising mud-water all around: not so much.

She took a deep breath, crying out again, weakly, as her ribs expanded and challenged the weight that pressed down on her. The damp air just wouldn't go in anymore–or so it seemed, and she was becoming too tired to fight, too tired to...breathe.

_Don't...give...up,_ she reminded herself harshly, as her eyelids fluttered. _Just...a bit...longer._ She sucked a small bit of air through her nose and for the hundredth time that night, cursed the situation she was in. How had she been fooled so easily? How had she come to believe that her suffering was over, that her happiness would last? Clearly that wasn't how it ever worked for her. She should have known better than to become invested in the future, in the possibilities.

_I actually...started...to make a plan,_ she thought brokenly. _God, I'm so stupid._

_So...stupid..._

It hadn't seemed stupid when she and Grissom had lounged in front of the fireplace a few weeks ago, relaxing, talking, laughing. It hadn't seemed stupid when she'd first started to wake up every day, excited about what could happen before the next time her head met her pillow. But it seemed so damn stupid now, as water streamed into the corner of her mouth and grit covered her teeth.

_At least...the plan...was in the...early stages. It'll be easier...on Grissom._

Sara, of all people, knew that nothing was for sure, but she'd had hope this time. Real hope. Their plan hadn't always been spoken: it wasn't clarified; it wasn't definite; it was always a work in progress, but it was theirs. Their future. Their possibilities. Their comfort. Their remedy to the past, to their own struggles, to the horror they saw every day. It was true–they'd already encountered some things that didn't work out exactly as they'd pictured, but it had been moving in the direction they'd expected.

Until now.

Sara closed her eyes, surrendering to the pain and drowsiness. _I'm... not...giving up,_ she silently promised, as the blackness began to swallow her. She wanted to shout those words, but a thick sludge of mud–and blood–had completely invaded her mouth. She shivered at the taste, the texture, and at the realization that time really was running out.

Blood.

It didn't surprise her. Not with the weight on top of her. Not with the amount of time she'd been under there. She'd been so focussed on staying alive until Grissom found her that she hadn't really thought too much about the factors that could prevent that live discovery. It was in the back of her mind, yes, but she hadn't spent too much time contemplating her exact injuries or the extent of them. She knew it was bad. And that was enough. Especially since the water was rising, and that not-so-little issue would trump everything else.

_Griss...I need...you._

_Water..._

She couldn't think anymore. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't accept what was about to happen. Every part of her felt like it was about to explode. The only thought that managed to make any sense in her jumbled, panicked mind was the one that she'd lived by her entire life.

_Just...keep...holding...on._

_As...long...as...possible._

* * *

Grissom was only half aware that he was running toward the car, and not at all aware of the other people around him. Nick's hand was pressed against his back, guiding him along, supporting him; Greg was shouting Sara's name; Brass was on the phone, directing the EMTs. But Grissom was in his own world, fighting to stay in control, fighting to do the one thing he'd been focussed on for what seemed like an eternity: 

Find Sara.

Alive.

That was the plan. The _only_ plan. And he was going to follow it.

Rain soaked him right through in the two seconds it took him tackle the bank above the car. The dampness seeped into his bones and he shivered, wondering in a deep, cold fear how Sara could possibly survive, injured, after so much time out in this weather. The thought permeated his consciousness as he slid down the small, muddy slope, one hand shielding his eyes from the pelting rain, the other reaching out to the small hand a few feet away. He wasted no time keeping his balance, and no time avoiding the mud and water that was already filling his shoes; he just let his whole body go–as quickly as possible–where it needed to go.

To Sara.

To her fingers–the fingers that had been trembling in the miniature but were so frighteningly still now.

To a reality that he wasn't sure he could face.

As soon as he grasped her cold, dirty hand, he felt what Sara must have been feeling: the entire weight of that car, the weight of fear, the weight of hopelessness. He'd been functioning in auto-pilot for what seemed like forever, living and breathing on only adrenaline and a small hint of hope. And now, as he knelt at Sara side, it all came crashing down on him, making him frightfully dizzy and unsure if this was all really happening.

Was it really her lying there under the weight of that car?

Had they actually found her?

Was she still alive?

Or was this all a nightmare: one that he would wake up from at any second, and find Sara there beside him, safe on her side of the bed, her arms tangled comfortingly around him?

Was this it? Really?

He shook his head wildy, forcing himself to take a shaky breath and face the darkness and uncertainty of the present. There was no time. No time to sit there and pretend, wonder, deny. So much time had been wasted already–by his own private panic and Natalie's torturous mind games.

Heart thumping in his chest and hands and knees sinking into the mud, Grissom crawled in close to overturned car, searching for an opening, a way to get to Sara. His fingers, tentative and trembling, moved along her exposed arm, stopping at her wrist. He was feeling for a pulse before he even told himself to do it.

Auto-pilot.

It was only way to do this.

His fingers searched desperately as pressure built up in his chest, making him feel sick to his stomach. He searched and searched, but there was no beat under his fingers.

There was just...nothing.

For a split second, he just froze, unable to move, unable to stop the flood of anger and panic that surged through him.

_This isn't part of the plan! _

_You're not supposed to leave me! _

He felt the tears burn. _You're not going to leave me, Sara. You can't. Please. Please don't do this._ He had never begged for anything before, but he was begging now: begging the world, begging God, begging all the things he didn't believe in. He just begged, unaware that Nick, Greg, and Brass were leading the effort to move the car.

It was only when the car moaned loudly against the movement that Grissom came back into reality. Following Sara's lifeless arm, he crawled into the small opening that had been created, not even pondering his own safety, ignoring the protests of those who did. He reached, pulled, and turned himself until he was straddling her, cupping her muddy face with his shaking hands, checking again for a pulse, this time at her throat.

Her eyes were closed.

Her lips were tinged with blue.

She was so still.

So...still.

There was no pulse.

"Sara," he choked her name out, biting back the cry that threatened to slip out as well. "Dammit, Sara, don't leave me–" He trailed off, his words running dry, his throat closing up. He couldn't make the air reach his lungs as he opened Sara's mouth, beginning the battle to make her breathe.

With two fingers he attempted to clear her airway, and with his other hand, he tilted her head to the side, forcing the mud and water out of her mouth. He watched, tears on his cheeks, as the brown and red mixture poured out and then eased to a trickle.

The rest was a blur.

One that he would later remember–in detail–as the most difficult few minutes of his life.

He wasn't aware of anything at all until the car was no longer above them and Brass was pulling him away from Sara's hypothermic form. He felt strangely lightheaded–a big, almost overwhelming difference from the weight he felt earlier.

"You did good, Gil, real good," Brass was saying, as he helped Grissom sit and put his head between his knees."But you're exhausted. Take some deep breaths. You can't do any more for her. Let them take over."

Grissom looked up for a moment, wincing in confusion when he saw Nick breathing for Sara and Greg monitoring her vitals. There were flashing lights now, and the EMTs were making their way down the slope. Greg was waving them over, a small glimmer of hope in his expression.

Grissom dropped his head back between his knees, desperately sucking air into his lungs. "Jim?" he whispered hoarsely. "My God, I can't–"

"Just try to relax," Brass interrupted softly, encouraging him. "She's doing okay. You did it, buddy. You got her. Her heart's beating now. She's trying to breathe. We're gonna get her to the hospital."

Grissom nodded half-coherently as he took a few more deep breaths. The air started to filter into his lungs again, slowly, calmly. It cleansed him, steadied him, cleared his mind and soul. The surge of adrenaline was gone and in its place was an unexpected, gentle hum of peace. His fingers and toes tingled with it; his heart beat at a normal pace.

"She'll be okay," he said, slowly lifting his head. There was no question in his voice. He just knew. She would be okay because she _had _to be okay.

Because there was no Plan B.


End file.
